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Aw. Dang, I was hoping we’d see some stronger world development for pigtown. The immunity ending up being a plot device really makes it feel hollow. I was personally rooting for a get away that leaves a bunch of moral grays and ambiguity that would change some future pigtown interactions.

Caveat: This story was a commission. That’s not me attempting to excuse myself, the ring plot point is a bit shoddy, but the point of the commission wasn’t to delve into Pigtown, so much as the TF of Keith, and his revenge on Oliver. The commissioner likes the Pigtown setting I use, and it made sense to use it here. 

But even then, Pigtown isn’t a world–there’s no internal logic to the place–it’s just a setting. It’s an entirely different place each time I use it. Each iteration has a few commonalities–it’s always owned and operated by a man named Rod, for instance–but beyond that there is no continuity here that you’re looking for.

That’s not say I don’t find the bones of your idea intriguing–not enough people escape Pigtown, in my opinion, and a setting with a 100% success rating becomes less interesting over time. But I don’t think you’re ever going to get “stronger world development” in my stories–it simply isn’t how I write. If anything, I actively avoid constructing worlds whenever possible–I prefer the flexibility a more fluid storytelling style offers.

Pigtown Prison (Part 4)

It was getting late, and Oliver was trying to figure out whether or not his gambit had paid off. He knew Keith had gotten to the bar and gone inside…but whether Rod had actually done as Oliver demanded…well, no one really knew what might happen once Pigtown got involved. Threatening him probably hadn’t been the best move either, especially because Oliver had been making threats he was no longer sure he could back up, should things go awry. The magic ring he’d gotten, the one which cancelled out magic around it, had…cracked after he’d gone to the bar the night before. Whatever magic Pigtown was running on, it was a whole lot stronger than the parlor tricks Oliver had been taught by his grandmother, and the trinkets gifted to him in her will. Still, whatever happened, he was never going to be setting foot in that place again–that would be way too much of a risk. In fact, he should probably skip town entirely, just to be safe.

He sent Keith another text, telling him he was probably just going to cancel tonight…but at this point, why was he even trying? If Keith had gone into the bar, it was too late for him anyway, regardless of whether Rod had followed through on the bargain or not. He felt…a bit bad, really, but he’d never liked Keith that much–he’d never been able to love Keith like he’d loved Oliver in return. He was about to get ready for bed when he heard a heavy knock on the door to his apartment.

“Open up! It’s the police!”

The voice was low and gruff, with a hard edge to it. Had…something happened to Keith? Oliver went to the door and opened it up, and found himself staring up at a man who might as well have stepped out of his wet dreams. At least six foot four, his wide framed packed with muscle and squeezed into a leather police uniform, all of it meticulously shined. “There you are, Oliver–I think the two of us need to have a word.”

Did he…know him? Oliver’s eyes flicked to the badge on the shirt, and the name engraved on it. Keith Lewis. His eyes went wide, unable to believe it–had…had Rod really bought it? Had he turned little twinky Keith into this…fucking monstrous brute, just for him? Before he could say anything, Keith put a gloved hand on Oliver’s chest and shoved him back into the apartment, Oliver struggling to keep his balance. Keith stepped in, shut the door behind him, and locked the door. “Keith, uh, I…guess you met…Rod?” Oliver asked.

“Rod? Yeah, I know Rod–he’s my boss now,” Keith said, cracking his knuckles in his gloves as he walked forward, “I know you too, Oliver…kind of. It’s a bit…fuzzy. But I know what you fucking need, and I have a fucking job to do. You have information I need, and I’ve found that the best way to get that sort of thing is…a little unpleasant, but necessary.”

He stepped up to Oliver, grabbed him, and shoved him up against the hallway wall, and then pushed his body against him, pinning him there. Oliver moaned, and started grinding his ass back against the leather clad officer, unable to believe it. Rod had actually done it! “Fuck, sir, you can do whatever you want to me, I fucking want you so fucking bad…”

“Yeah, I bet you fucking do,” Keith whispered in his ear, “You fucking slut–do you fucking know what you put me through? Do you fucking know how much it fucking hurt? I…I still feel it, you know, the fucking ache. I wanna hurt you like you fucking hurt me, but I don’t even know where to fucking begin…”

“Fuck me sir, fuck me and show me what a bad boy I’ve been.”

“Fuck you?” Keith said, laughing, “Oh no boy–see, that’s what you want me to do. I didn’t come here to give you what you want pig. I came here to teach you a fucking lesson, about fucking with the wrong fucking people.”

He grabbed Oliver by the hair, slammed his face into the wall, and then flung him to the floor, where he lay for a moment, stunned.

“As far as fucking you is concerned…fuck, you know what? I really do want to rape that tight fucking ass of yours. I wanna leave it a gaping, bleeding crater. But you know what I think? I think you might enjoy that too much, you fucking slut, so let’s call that a reward. You know what we’re going to do first, to deserve a reward like that? You’re going to tell me how you were able to resist Master Rod yesterday. He’s real curious about how you made that work, you see, and I don’t think I can see myself fucking you unless you get real helpful, real fucking quick.”

Oliver scrambled up to his feet and backed up down the hallway, staring at the door to freedom behind Keith’s massive frame. “Look, Keith…I’m sorry, alright? Just–we can talk this out.”

“Oh no–you ain’t sorry for nothing, Oliver, I could feel how fucking horny you got, rubbing against my big fucking cock–well fuck you, you fucking slut–you’re gonna fucking get what’s coming to you.”

Oliver made a break for the fire escape, but Keith tackled him before he could even get the window open, and dragged him over to the radiator, where he handcuffed him to the base. Over the next few hours, Oliver endured what Keith considered to be an interrogation–stripped of his clothes, and beaten, until he told Keith everything he could–about the ring, about his grandmother, about how he’d been planning on running–when Keith was satisfied he’d gotten the truth, or at least enough to satisfy Rod, he decided to give Oliver a rest, took his boot off the young man’s balls, and let him sob a sigh of relief. He went into bedroom, where Oliver had told him the ring was, and picked it up–to think, all of this shit was caused by such a small thing. He dropped the ring to the floor, and stomped on it, hearing the already cracked crystal shatter under his heel. Back in the living room, Oliver heard the sound, and guessed what had happened–whatever came next, he was at Keith’s–and Rod’s–mercy.

Patron Suggested Stories for July Ready to Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

I want to take a short break from “Pigtown Prison” to announce that the monthly Patreon suggestions have been written and are ready for download! Anyone who contributes at least one dollar a month can both contribute suggestions each month, and read the results! I hope you all enjoy them. To give you all a sense of what these little snippets look like, here’s one from last month I enjoyed a lot, a sequel of sorts to “Asslickers Inc.” from last year.

The Attention Whore

“There aren’t that many left–which one should we use on him?”

“This one?”

“No way–Robbie used one that looked a bit like that…and you know how Robbie is now.”

The group of young, bearish men all nodded and agreed at that. Beside them, bent over the table and tied down was Officer Clyde Bucksworth, who had responded to a noise complaint at the house an hour earlier. He’d assumed it was just a frat party getting a bit out of control, like usual–not a big problem. Hell, he’d pledged this frat back when he was in college, so he was on a first name basis with almost all of the guys in the house. However, as soon as he’d pulled up…something had seemed off about the whole thing, and when the door had opened letting him see what was happening inside…he’d freaked out. All of the straight laced, jockish young men he’d known well were gone–or if not gone, they were twisted somehow. He could recognize a few, but most were entirely different people now–hairier, beefier, older in a lot of cases, and without exception, they’d all become faggots. He’d pulled his tazer, and stepped inside, but someone had knocked him out before he could do much of anything, and now he was here, naked, tied over the edge of a table, surrounded by men he didn’t recognize, watching them play with a selection of six or seven dildos laid out on the table in front of him.

“What the fuck happened to you guys? This–you aren’t faggots!” Clyde said.

The men all laughed.

“That’s what we thought too!”

“Don’t worry–you’ll understand soon enough, just like we all did.”

They settled on their choice in due time–and Clyde struggled harder when he saw the tool. It was at least ten inches long and covered with what looked like metal studs and rings, including one that looked like a PA in the head. It was called “The Attention Whore,” and it promised to make the man who used it into the sort of freak people would gawk at, day or night.

Clyde begged and screamed, but they lubed the toy up and started pushing it against the officer’s virgin hole–to his surprise, it slid in easily, and it actually felt…kind of pleasant. The men took turns fucking him with it, and soon he was moaning a bit, trying to avoid thinking about how hard his cock had gotten all of a sudden.

“That;s it, don’t fight–it’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

He could feel the metal bits rubbing against the inside of his colon, making him shudder–but then they started to loosen as the asslicker dissolved, and he could feel the balls and rings inside him…pushing their way through him. It hurt–but not as much as when they started pushing their way out of his body after a couple of minutes. Most of them had found their way to his cock and balls, and he cried out in pain as they pushed through his skin, though it healed up immediately afterwards. His balls looked like a pincushion, and the PA from the dildo was far too large for the head of his leaking cock. His nipples received doorknockers of similar size, and the ring in his septum was even larger, hanging down to his mouth. Eyebrows, ears, lips, tongue–none had been spared.

The men could see the next layer emerging below the outer metal–a swirl of black ink against a field of deep red shaft, almost the color of raw steak. In fact, he could taste it–sweet blood on his tongue, and his body began to ache as his muscles spasmed, and grew. Clyde had always kept his body is good shape, but prefered to be lean, rather than bulky–now, however, he was rapidly gaining the physique of a powerlifter. The hair on his head was falling out, even as a short beard filled in around his face–the hair on his body grew a bit thicker, but not thick enough to obscure the black tribal tattoos which were swirling to the surface of his skin.

“Oh fuck, I feel really…fucking big,” he slurred, voice thick and twisted by the metal in his mouth. It was deeper, and sounded…stupid. He had to figure out some way out of this–but he couldn’t. His mind felt sluggish, and everyone was…staring at him. He liked having people stare at him–it felt good. He felt sexiest when everyone’s eyes were on him, and nowhere else. The men, noticing that he’d lost the will to resist, undid one of his hands–and rather than try and escape, he reached under and stroked his metal studded cock, the men fucking him harder now–but the dildo was feeling…strange in their hands. It behaved like a water balloon, or an inflated condom. They pushed it in deep, and Clyde felt it pop inside of him, and whatever liquid was inside of it flooded his ass–but didn’t flow back out. No, he could feel it surge through him to his cock and balls, the silicone running into his scrotum and into the flesh of his shaft. He could feel it growing in his hands, losing some sensation as the skin stretched. His cock didn’t grow any longer, and the shaft swallowed the head entirely, with just the massive ring jutting out from the fleshlight shaped mound his cock had become. His balls, when they stopped growing, hung heavy below him, almost the size of a bowling ball, the piercings now better spaced on the huge sack.

The men untied him and he went straight to the mirror–eager to look at himself, to see what everyone else could see. He was a freak–a muscle freak with an impossible cock, and Clyde couldn’t be happier. The silicone seemed to have affected other parts of his as well–his lips fuller, his pecs inflated too large to be completely natural. The men were all gaping, and soon, one was on his knees, worshiping Clyde’s strange meat, while another bent him over and started fucking the attention whore’s still loose hole, memories of his old life fading quickly.

Within the hour, he was running around the house with the rest of them, massive package barely constrained by a thong he’d found in one of the boxes Arctos had delivered with the asslickers–dancing for the men, enticing them, until they gave in and fucked his ass or worshiped his freakish junk, nothing more than a musclebear attention whore for the rest of his days.

Patron Suggested Stories for July Ready to Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Pigtown Prison (Part 3)

Keith, in his mind, was desperately trying to make his body stop, but he couldn’t. He’d never topped another person in his life, but all his body wanted to do now was fuck–and fuck rough. The pig under him had gotten used to the assault and was starting to enjoy himself, so he redoubled his force, plowing him harder until the pig squealed in pain…and hearing that, he felt so fucking good, it nearly made him shoot. “What…the fuck did you fucking do to me!” he shouted at Rod, his voice deep and gruff, completely alien to the one he’d known his whole life.

“Don’t be mad at me, fucker–it was Oliver, who did this to you.” Rod got down and stared Keith right in the eyes, “You wanna be mad at anyone, then be mad at him.”

Something…changed in him. The rage he was feeling flared higher, and Keith felt all of it focused on Oliver. He tried to fight it and push back–he loved Oliver! Sure, their sexual chemistry was a bit of a struggle, given that they both preferred to bottom, but he’d thought they’d been working through it, right?

Rod just chuckled, “Oh no, Keith, no, no, no. Oliver never really wanted you. That’s why you’re here. He wants a top, a brutal top, a mean fucker who only wants to plow him into next week. He doesn’t care about who you are–he just wants the fuck. All this? All this pain? He doesn’t care as long as he gets what he wants. Well guess what Keith? You don’t have to care either. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

There was a flicker in Rod’s eyes, and a moment later, Keith screamed again. His mind–it felt like it was on fire–or at least parts of it were. All of his memories of Oliver, all of the times they’d shared together, all of them were aflame–but it wasn’t just memories–it was his compassion and his love. He could feel it shrinking and withering to ash, and the pain was horrific but soon he didn’t even care. He enjoyed it, he reveled in it–he gripped the pig by one hip, hard enough to bruise, and drove in deeper still, his other hand planted on the back of the pig’s head shoving his face into the filthy, pissdamp floor of the bathroom. “How’s that feel, you fucking piece of shit?” he screamed, and his cock exploded, filling the pig’s ass to the brim, but he kept fucking until he went soft, and only then did he pull out–body shaking with some caustic mix of pain, exhaustion and exhilaration.

Who…was he now? He remembered so little, but he did know one thing, and remember one person. Oliver–he remembered him, and he hated him. Hated him, because it was his fault that he’d just been put through all of that pain and suffering…and Keith knew he was going to have to pay for what he did.

“That’s a good boy,” Rod said, giving Keith a pat on the shoulder, “Now, why don’t we get you deputized?”

Rod’s hand settled on his shoulder, and underneath his palm, something like a shadow spread out and down Keith’s body, down his chest and back. He braced himself for more pain, but this didn’t hurt–it was warm and supple–he first thought it was some kind of rubber, but he touched it with a finger, and discovered that he somehow being coated in leather. It covered his entire body, aside from his neck and head, in less than a minute, a smooth, body hugging layer–and once it had coated him, he felt the entire body suit shift and morph around him. It split at the waist, becoming a shirt and pants, and then split again at his knees, the leather around his feet shaping into a pair of perfectly shined leather motorcycle boots. The pants were tight against his muscles, with a red stripe down the side, his huge cock bulging in the crotch and running down one leg. The leather…adjusted to it, and it felt so comfortable, like his cock always laid there, in a stretched out pocket of his pants. The shirt took a bit longer to form, but the details were more intricate–lapels and pockets, the sleeves shortening, exposing his massive biceps and forearms, hands encased by the tightest fitting gloves he’d ever felt, like they were painted on his hands.

Rod gave a flourish with his hand, and a cap appeared in his hand–and a silver steel badge. He placed the police cap on Keith’s head, and pinned the badge to his chest, and then gave him a smoky kiss. “Beautiful–now, you have a suspect to interrogate, right officer?”

“Y-Yes sir,” Keith said.

“Good fucker–work him over nice and proper. Figure out what sort of shit he pulled here yesterday. But whatever he did, don’t bring it back here! Just…deal with it as best you can. Probably some knick knack or something–it surprised me, but wasn’t that strong.”

Keith nodded, and a few minutes later he was out on the sidewalk, cool in his leathers despite the hot night. He found his motorcycle and rode off into the dark, heading for Oliver’s place, and more than eager give the man who’d done this to him a bit of payback.

Other than a determined nihilism, do you see politics in your stories?

Short answer: Yes.

Long answer: I have, like, a treatise in my head that I want to write about the intersection of TF fiction, heteronormativity and queer revolutionary politics, but I doubt it will ever see the light of day. Maybe it’ll be Wes’s crowning achievement at some point in my old age, when all of this shit finally makes sense to me.

If anything, however, I would say that the politics of most of the queer fiction I see is suuuuper disappointing. Oh man, I bought “Dream Daddy, a Dad Dating Simulator” and I can’t help but feel super fucking irritated at the implicit heteronormative shit embedded all the way through that thing. I mean, it goes beyond the fact that you are literally a “dad” dating other “dads” (It makes the game safer, I think, to a mass audience, to know that whatever happens in it can’t possibly be too revolutionary–after all, they all have families to worry about, right?) to the entire structure of the dates themselves.

***FUCKING SPOILERS***

Like, can we fucking talk about Robert here? The storyline that seems like it could actually be sex positive shuts down the entire possibility of the story arc if you hook up with him during the intro. Fucking punishment for sex on the first date, fuck you Game Grumps. I’ll fuck if I fucking want to, and that doesn’t mean I’m treating Robert as a fucking object, you piece of shit narrative. In fact, the entire Robert-Mary-Joseph-You love/hate quad is so fucking dysfunctional and anti-queer I can’t even handle it. 

*Calms down somewhat*

Brian’s hot, sure, whatever. The point is, TF fiction, especially TF fiction which assumes an entire shift in world (and I definitely count “Dream Daddy” in this category–the notion of a world where a bunch of dads openly date one another is still a fucking radical change compared to real life, even if the game butchers it) can appear so radical on the surface, but that only serves to make the internal hetero logic of these stories stand out even brighter on the surface.

Without being too cruel, this was my primary issue with @anothermeekone‘s story a few months back, called “Queer Happenings”. You have this radical cult, a god demanding a complete shift in the nature of reproduction, love, self-determination, physical form and agency…and then the story ends with two of the characters wanting to get married.

*Rips hair out*

Meek, you put in so much effort here! Can we expand our imaginations beyond marriage please! 

Most of this criticism can be leveled back at me, of course. I struggled with these concerns, or proto-questions to these concerns, a lot when I was writing City of Bears, and these remain the chief reason why that story has remained on the back burner for so long now. What does a queer world even look like? If we break the monotony of hetero-monogamy then what can society even look like? Without women, what does reproduction even look like? Is a queer society necessarily a society dying, and is that a good thing?

I don’t have the answers to any of these questions, but it’s frustrating to me that a lot of other writers haven’t even bothered to notice these questions exist. Dream Daddy is only ever going to be a completely safe simulation. Imagining it *actually* occurring is terrifying. As a simulation, a queer world can always be just a joke. Instead, most of my friends are probably going to end up losing their health insurance this week, and I’m going to be left crying myself to sleep.

Nihilism? Yeah, I got fucking nihilism. I got more nihilism than anything else. You know what? Despite all my reservations though, I’m still glad things like “Dream Daddy” exist. I loved reading Meek’s story, even if I howled in rage at the ending. I miss the guy I was, writing City of Bears. I really, really miss having hope, because that’s what all of those stories require–they need hope to exist. I don’t really know where my hope went–maybe it’ll come back someday. But until then I’m stuck wrestling with this shit all the same.

Wouldn’t a clueless character tie into a reality shift piece?

This is in reply to a couple of asks I got last week. You can find them here and here.

Kind of. There are characters in reality shift stories who “behave” like clueless characters, but because of the nature of the story (that is, because reality has supposedly shifted around them) there is a very good reason for them to suddenly be clueless about the way the world functions. The sort of cluelessness I’m complaining about involves characters who have no reason to be clueless, beyond serving a convenient function for an author who should learn how to write better. 

When you write, how do you make sure there is enough chartered development in a story but not too much to overpower the actual fetish part of the story?

Short answer: Practice and experience.

Longer answer: No really, there’s no shortcut here. 

Every story requires a balance between action and development (what Jim Butcher calls “Scenes and Sequels” (I’d recommend his whole series of writing advice actually, you can find it on his old livejournal here–start at the bottom and read your way up.) In fact, he says it more artfully than I will, so go read that. It helped me out a lot when I was getting started writing, and it’s advice I still use on occasion now.

I saw the answer about your fursona and that got me thinking. What kind of ‘person’ for lack of a better term… IS Wes honestly and what is he into?

I’ve gotten this question a few times over the years I’ve been writing, and it’s one I’ve always struggled to answer effectively. It’s also a question whose answer changes over time–my relationship as an author to Wes has changed quite a lot over the years since I first started posting these stories, and I’m no longer certain this question makes a whole lot of sense to ask, or to try and answer. I’ll try to explain.

I started writing these stories when I was eighteen, a freshman in college, and had just began having sex with guys. I had been reading stories like these ones for ages, of course, but I only started writing one on a whim, because I was sick of waiting for people to write the sort of stories I wanted to read. Of course, when it came time to post the story, I also needed to have a pseudonym of some sort. I knew I wanted it to be a first and last name, as opposed to a username, so I used my own middle name and then did a random page search on Wikipedia until I stumbled across a last name I liked. Hence, Wesley Bracken.

To begin with, it was just a title–I didn’t consider Wes to be a character separate from myself. But as I kept writing and I grew a bit of a reputation, there was an odd feedback loop that started. People felt strongly about Wes, in the way people care strongly about things on the internet, and it peaked with a shitstorm that got kicked up on the old NCMC around a story I posted that bent against the site rules and got deleted. I wrote a screed (you can read it here, and stay for the comments below!) and that, I think, was the first time I understood Wes to have become someone beyond myself. A separate character I could act beyond my own capacities. But Wes only existed because he existed for other people. He was never created by me, but rather by readers–who is this person writing these strange fucking stories? I’ve gotten a lot of imaginative answers to that question over the years, and it never fails to surprise me, who people think Wes is.

For a while, I used that distance, and played Wes as a character, but it’s a rather exhausting charade to keep up, in part because Wes is a lot of the exhausting aspects of myself ramped up to 11–the aggression, the obstinacy, the sarcasm, nihilism and pessimism.

But in the end, Wes and I really are the same person. I feel like the distance between us has been flattening again. I’m just a weird guy in the Seattle area who spends a lot of time writing disturbing stories, because he hates the world as it is and wants to imagine something different. Sexy different. Part of this is also the fact that I’ve become more comfortable being open about my writing with people in real life–not the content, per se, but the act. 

Wes started out as an aspiration. He became a character that other people believed in, and who I was happy to pretend to be, off and on. Now, he’s just a part of me, another name that I go by. 

As for what Wes and I are in to…I think you already know the answer to that question, don’t you?